Fallout from the Fade
by JadeLavellan
Summary: [DAI SPOILERS] Based on a k!meme prompt: Hawke is left to die in the Fade, but somehow survives & escapes. But the experience has affected her mentally & physically, and she must learn to cope. Inquisition members & her lover Fenris both do what they can to try to help her. VERY ANGSTY, LOTS OF DARK STUFF. Triggers on AO3 tags here: /works/3301274
1. Chapter 1

The worst part is: she can remember everything.

Hawke sits trembling, her back pressed against a slight dimple in the rough stone wall. The crevice she's hiding in can't even be called a cave— the fissure in the rock is no more than an arm's length wide, even though she's barely a dozen paces from the entrance. A narrow band of sickly green light pulses high above, sending pale shadows wavering across the stone. If she stares, the lights almost look like faces.

She closes her eyes.

_Please, let this be far enough_. Rubble blocks any deeper exploration of the cracked cliff. But around the corner, outside her shelter and out of sight, something large and lumbering slowly heaves itself nearer.

_Not here_, she thinks to herself, _don't look here don't come closer don't—_

Hawke crams her hand between her teeth, biting down on the first knuckle. She takes a slow, shuddering breath, certain it must hear her, smell her, it knows, it's coming—

A splash, farther off. The demon—she isn't sure what kind—is leaving. She listens to it go, heart pounding like a war drum. Long minutes stretch by after the echoes of its passing fade away, and still she can't move. She should be out there, fighting—she knows this. She's faced templars and abominations and even an Andraste-forsaken dragon in that cursed bone-pit. She once scared off a gang of mercenaries with nothing but her barbed tongue. But one a throaty roar from behind a cliff and she's spooked into hiding. Frustration grows, dimming the panic still coiled in her chest. It's irrational. It's stupid.

She can't make it stop.

"I am in control," she whispers. If she says it often enough, it might stop being a lie.

With agonizing slowness, Hawke drags herself to her feet, one white-knuckled hand clutching her ruined staff. The bottom third of the stave has snapped off, blade lodged somewhere in the curled-up husk that is all that remains of the Nightmare's Spider demon, left miles behind her already.

She hadn't expected to win that fight, not really. She'd thrown herself in with little enough regard for her own safety, recklessly diving under its engorged belly to shoot fireballs at the joints of its clattering legs. It almost crushed her as it collapsed to one side, twisting underneath itself to reach for her with groping pincers while a dozen wet, black eyes fixed her in an emotionless stare. The rest happened in a blur, to be honest—she knows she gouged out one of those horrible glistening eyes, and can recall the feel of her staff blade sinking into the unexpectedly soft skin under its abdomen. The acrid taste of the monster's acid venom in the air still stings on her tongue. The rest is falling rocks and her own snarling rage. Instinct alone made her throw up a barrier at the end as the monster finally toppled, death-spasms sending great shudders through the stone underfoot, knocking her off her feet.

Her ward had faded by the time it finished dying. A creature stuffed fat on all the twisted fears its master had fed it.

The worst part is: she can remember _everything. _

A half-choked sob escapes through her clenched jaw, muffled by the hand still clamped across her mouth. She sways on her feet, and they come:

_The sound of bandits outside of the caravan, laughing as they gut the last guard. The pain of an arrow piercing her lung, and the slow bubbling of blood behind every ragged breath. The smell of smoke, waking too late, the air already tainted with the char of singed flesh before the children's screams even began. A single, trembling voice, in a dark room: "O Maker, hear my cry: Guide me through the blackest nights—"_

"Not me," Hawke whispers, digging her fingers into the unyielding stone to steady herself. "Not me." She has to remind herself constantly. Not her pain, not really. Not her life.

She should have guessed. When they killed the wisps, the Inquisitor found her missing memories again.

When Hawke killed the Spider demon, she got the rest of everyone else's.


	2. Chapter 2

Deep breath. Unclench fingers. Step forward, once. Breathe again. She has it under control again, now. The abandoned memories churn inside her, begging to be heard, but she can resist. At least for a while, before her next breakdown. The important thing now is to just keep moving. She creeps out of the mouth of the crevice, wearily trudging forward through the twisting canyons.

Ahead of her, she can see the distorted glow of a Fade rift, a shimmering patch of blue sky in this void of green shadows and red rocks. Her heart—her real one, she is almost sure, not the hundred others now unwillingly held within her—aches at the sight. It is so close, now. When she finally clawed her way out from under the Spider demon's corpse, her companions had long vanished through the rift at the Nightmare's lair, and sealed the way out behind them. She's not sure how long she's been fighting her way towards this one—a week? Two? There is no day or night here. Time doesn't seem to be real—she hasn't needed to eat or drink but her body still throbs in pain every time she takes a step. Dreamers flicker in and out endlessly, and she can mark the passing of time only in how often she collapses in exhaustion. Each time, she has to ride out the waves of memories filled with terror and despair. She can't guess at how long each episode lasts. She doesn't want to.

But she's close, now. She can feel it, tingling on her skin. The veil is weak here, and she can sense fragments of torn Fade essence slowly drifting in the rift's pull. It tugs at her, too, an almost magnetic feeling, guiding her even when cliffs or floating inverted mountains block it from her view.

She's not the only one. The closer she gets, the more demons she sees—most are just wisps, gliding serenely in the rift's current. Hawke makes sure to evade them as much as possible as she trudges through ankle-deep icy water, the tops of her boots rimed with frost.

But conflict is unavoidable. A shade rears up before her, and she has just enough time to slam up an ice wall, manacling its grasping claws mid-lunge. It screams in fury and pain as she summons enough strength to pummel it with a magically thrown boulder. Miraculously, it shatters under the blow, crumpling to a quickly-disintegrating heap in the puddle of slush that now remains.

Hawke steps around it, rubbing the arm that grips the top section of her staff. It's far better than nothing, but it will never be able to twist enough energy through itself for maximum spellpower again. Even here in the Fade, surrounded by magical force, using the broken tool sends a tingling numbness through her nerves, jarring her concentration.

Hawke chews her lip. _Don't think about it._ She is almost to the rift. Ahead, it shudders, throbbing brighter for a moment before dimming. Once she makes it out, she can rest. Once she is back in the real world, not this twisting hellscape, then—anything. Anything but this.

_Mother told us to never play in the alleys, and we never listened. Mother told us to never speak to strange men. Mother never told us how the rope burns would sting when the saltwater touches them._

Hawke steps forward, once. Breathes. Steps again.

o - o - o

Two thousand breaths later, she can see it in full. A hazy window into the waking world, a warped image of treetops and sky. It's like a view through the stained glass of a chantry window, perverted into some grotesque hue. In some ironic twist of fate, the closer she draws, the safer she's actually become—all spirits around her are focused singularly on the tear in the veil now, drawn towards its sucking maw.

It shudders again, widening, and for just a moment it is like a door—pure and open, real streams of daylight pouring in and piercing through the unrelenting gloom. Immediately, the nearest host of demons are sucked through, and the shredded veil collapses back into place behind them. Hawke stumbles forward, unable to help herself now that it's less than fifty yards away. Her legs are aching, and all feeling left her feet hours ago, but she's close enough that all other cares are slipping away.

Maybe, once she is out, the voices will stop.

Thirty paces. A wraith takes an experimental swipe at her as it flows past, and she doesn't even bother to fight it, ignoring the shallow scrapes it leaves on what's left of her tattered mail. Twenty. She can't even run, really, just stumble forward, steps heavy and determined. The rift opens, natural light dazzlingly bright. Ten steps more. Reaching, reaching, Hawke stretches forward. Her very bones are vibrating, a growing sensation spreading up her limbs, threatening to shake her apart. Five. She is so close. Her fingers are almost brushing the edge. She tenses herself to leap, and that is when the world explodes.

o - o - o

Something is wrong. She's lying crumpled on the ground, the echoes of the explosion still ringing in her ears. The prickly feeling of the veil is gone, but she's still lying amidst crumbling rubble and brackish water. Slowly, dizzyingly, Hawke looks up.

Green. The sky is still green, peppered with gently drifting monoliths.

"No," she whispers. _No, no no_. The voices circling in her head join in with their own plaintive wails. She's still in the Fade. The rift is gone._ What happened?_

Dazedly, she glances around. She lies directly below where the rift was. Surrounding her, already fading, the corpses of a dozen demons are slowly sinking. Whatever killed them failed to do more than stun her. Whatever sealed the rift…

The implication hits her like a physical blow. "No," she says again, "no, _no, NO!_" There are no words of her own left in her head, only a terrible scream as she frantically _pulls_ with all her willpower at the substance of the Fade, trying to rip it open again, trying to find some crack or remnant she can force herself through.

There is nothing. She fires spell after spell into the void of the sky, and nothing catches. Somewhere, next to her and yet impossibly far, the Inquisitor has sealed yet another hole in the sky.

Hawke is on her knees again. She can't remember falling. She closes her eyes, imagining, maybe her companions are close enough, maybe she'll be able to hear them through the veil—

It is all the invitation the Fears locked inside her need.

_Help me, hurt me, save me, kill me. They screamed when she took them. Red stains on a blue dress. Arms weak, clawing at the wood, but the door never opens in time._

She is flooded with a hundred different pains. There is nothing she can do. Shaking, sobbing, she waits, curled on the ground. There is no point now. This was the closest rift, and it took her so long to get here. Her only chance at freedom, snatched from her again. This isn't living.

_Let me die. Let me die. Let me die._

She can't tell which voice is hers anymore.

But finally, slowly, they fade again. _Not me_, she tries to whisper to what's left of herself, but her tongue is too swollen in her mouth. When she tries to move it to shape words, she can taste blood.

Hawke doesn't know how much time has passed. The husks of the demons killed when the veil caved back into place have long since disintegrated. She lies, waiting. How long would it take a real body to decompose, here? She's seen skeleton dreams here from more than four ages ago, pristine and gleaming when their physical counterparts have long crumbled to dust. What does it mean to be a body, in a world of spirits? Maybe if she waits long enough, she won't have to find out.

Something is moving. She is only dimly aware of it, a giant rumbling beast at the edge of her vision. There's no point in shifting position, there is nowhere around she could possibly hide. Curiosity, more than anything, makes her focus her bleary eyes on the hulking form.

It studies her with intelligence in its many, glittering eyes. Purple sparks crackle across its skin, head tilted in consideration. It steps closer, the air around its massive fists humming with raw power.

_Now, then_. Hawke thinks. It is almost a relief. _What happens to you if you let them take you here?_ she can't help but wonder. Could she even become an abomination while her physical body was marooned her as well? Normally they came in via the mind. She supposed she was too weak to resist either way.

_I'm sorry, Fenris_. Before, she meant to die with his name on her lips; the closest she could get to one final kiss. Now, even words are too much effort. Her mouth is already numb, the coppery taste of blood mixing with the burns left by the Spider demon's blood. Thoughts will have to be enough.

Hawke closes her eyes, and waits.

The demon laughs, deep and booming. She hears it begin to walk, steps crunching and splashing on the rough ground. They are fading.

She opens her eyes, this time in disbelief. It's walking away. _No_, she thinks, _not now. Not when I've finally decided to give up_. But of course. Her last shreds of pride abandoned, she isn't even worthy of the demon's contempt anymore as it lumbers away.

_Should have summoned a Despair demon_. The thought flashes through her, absurd and petulant, and entirely her own. Some cross between a laugh and a sob tears its way from her chest, followed by another, until she is choking on them and crying, huddled on the ground.

_It would be so easy_, she thinks. It probably wouldn't be more than an hour before another demon stumbled upon her, even without the magnetic pull of the rift to draw them in. But she has never done things the easy way. She finds a problem, and latches on until it is solved, like a war mabari. Stubbornness was always her downfall. She can almost hear Varric chastising her for it, even as the virtue pushes her to her feet once more. The Fears that flowed into her after the Nightmare's demise are mercifully quiet now, reduced to a dull unceasing murmur now that they've shouted their fill, at least temporarily.

Hawke fingers the splintered end of her staff. A pity. She'd picked it off a body in Hightown years before, some Carta thug. She doesn't remember why she killed him. Probably he tried to kill her first. Sighing, she looks down at herself. Soaking wet, battle-mage mail shredded. She pries off the worst of it, the weight only slowing her down at this point. Far to her left (_east? Were there even such directions in this place?_), another three week's worth of walking away, something flickers blue in the sky. When she stares at it, her skin tingles.


	3. Chapter 3

It's only an hour after dawn when the scouts stumble across the body in the Exalted Plains, lying crumpled in a shady patch of undergrowth. At first, the hooded figures assume it's dead. This wasn't the first carcass they'd uncovered that day, nor would it be the last. The shorter of the pair pauses to nudge it with one steel-toed boot, lifting the corpse's limp arm off of her face.

Both jump back in shock as a weak groan escapes her lips.

"Sweet Andraste!" the taller one gasps, kneeling down.

The dwarf is already untying her waterskin. "Can she talk?"

"I don't think so." The human carefully pries open one of the limp figure's eyes. "She's not unconscious, but she's not fully responsive. Delirious. Maybe sunstroke?" He frowns, brushing dirt from her torn and muddied clothes. "Maker's breath, she's a mage. Why didn't she heal herself?"

The dwarf cradles the woman's head in her lap, slowly dribbling water between her cracked and bleeding lips. "I don't know, but she's in a bad way. We'll have to get her back to a camp."

"Which is closest?"

"Path of the Flame, I think."

"I'll carry her." The man offers. "You go ahead. Tell Harding."

The woman moans again as the main hefts her in his arms. Her limbs twitch convulsively, but still her eyes are heavy-lidded and unfocused. The dwarf nods sharply, and hurries forward.

o - o - o

"We'll have to knock her out. Her heart won't stop racing, we can't be sure why, but it isn't good. She seems like she hasn't slept in days. It'll give her a chance to heal."

Hawke has regained just enough consciousness to understand the implication of the words, if not every detail.

"No," she tries to whisper through her parched throat, but no one seems to hear. When she tries to cry out, all that emerges is a fluttering whine of distress. Then something cool and hard is being pressed against her lips, and her mouth fills with some over-sweet, syrupy potion. She struggles not to swallow, but firm hands are tilting her head, forcing it down even as she tries to cough it away. "No!" she gasps again, or tries to. She lifts her arms to beat away the figures hunched over her, their arms curling and reaching, tugging away the last of her protective armor. But dark patches swim across her vision, and what shreds of control she's been clinging to finally slip away.

o - o - o

Harding doesn't get back to camp for another half hour. When she arrives, she immediately starts peppering the healers with questions. "Scout Helga said her injuries were too severe to be an accident. Do you think it was bandits, or could the Venatori have something to do with this? I know at least two camps have been spotted, and who knows how many more are skulking about."

"It's hard to say. Some of her wounds are clearly recent, like the fractured arm. But… well. It's probably best you just see for yourself."

Harding steps briskly into the tent, eyes sweeping over the patient as they adjust to the dimmed light. Even though she has grown used to the macabre—a necessity in this line of work—her heart still twinges at the sight of the prone form. Dozens of half-healed scars criss-cross the woman's arms and torso, fully exposed now that the healers have cut her ruined garments away. Even with most of the blood cleaned off, Lace Harding can see that while some are the clean cuts of a blade, others are jagged and rough. Already, the woman's skin has started to pucker and scab over the worst of them, ugly red-black lumps of flesh. Several particularly nasty vertical slices trail down the woman's forearm, vanishing into the thick bandaging at her fractured wrist.

But it is not until her eyes make it to the woman's face that Harding's blood runs freezes in her veins.

"Oh, no." She whispers softly.

"Ser?" A young guard inquires tentatively.

Harding swallows. "Bring me a messenger bird. No, bring three of them. I need to talk to Leliana as soon as possible."

The guard nods, but hesitates at the entrance. "Is it… do you know who she is?"

Harding swallows. She hadn't met her for long, really, but any time spent roaming together through unfamiliar territory bonds you with your traveling companions. It was hard to reconcile the joking, steely-eyed woman who'd plunged fearlessly into the unknown with the shivering pile of scars and skin before her.

"Yeah," she whispers softly. "It's Hawke."

The guard stares at her in astonishment. "The Champion? But—she died weeks ago! They held vigil and everything! Wouldn't—Sister Nightingale would have told us if it was a ruse, wouldn't she?" Doubt creeps into his voice on the last sentence. He was not at all sure she would tell them such a thing.

But Harding is shaking her head. "No. They knew she died. There was no surviving what she—I mean, poor Varric, he was so…"

The guard nods. "I'll fetch the birds, Ser," he promises, letting the canvas door flap shut.

Harding tenderly brushes a strand of hair out of the Champion's face. Even though she's been cleaned as thoroughly as the healers can manage out here, even without the bloodstains, Hawke looks more the shadow of herself than a real body.

"What happened to you?" Harding whispers to the still form, but she receives no answer other than the erratic twitching of Hawke's eyes beneath her closed lids as she dreams.

o - o - o

Hawke dreams.

But 'dreams' is not the right word for it. She thought being trapped within the Fade was the worst it could get—with literally no escape from the demons, both inner and outer, that relentlessly plagued her.

She didn't realize how much having a body protected her until she had to confront them with only her mind. Before, she could use physical sensation to focus, pull her back to who she was. Dig her nails into her palm, find her hand or fingers with her teeth. Later, when things got bad, there was always her knife. Without that anchor, she is adrift: dragged relentlessly through terror after terror.

In one, a woman she loves is slowly dying, disease rattling her lungs away bit by bit. After only a few moments, she is torn free and thrown into another nightmare, where she holds the still and lifeless body of her (_not mine_) child. A few moments more, and now she's trapped underground, dirt clogging her mouth and throat, slowly choking her under the crushing weight of earth.

Those are the good ones: the ones that are brief and fleeting. They end almost as soon as they begin, barely time to register the different permutations of pain. The worst are the ones that last for minutes, hours—the ones so strong and complete she can't hold on to who she is anymore. She lives out the pain as though it were her own, as though it were the life she'd always had.

_He is standing in the battlefield, not an hour after the fight has ended. One hand is clamped across his mouth, as he sucks shallow breaths through the sleeve of his once-clean robe. The stench of death already hangs heavy in the air, as he shakily trudges his way through the field of corpses. This isn't his first fight. He should be used to this. He repeats these facts to himself over and over, as he edges past the soldiers from both sides._

_A healer helps. That is their law—no matter who is hurt, now that the fighting is over, it is his job to care for them. His duty. With trembling hands, he closes pair after pair of eyelids, whispering passages of the Chant to the dead and himself as he walks among them. He can see the other apprentices doing the same around him, occasionally stopping to set bones and help the wounded back to camp._

_He hates it. He hates the bodies; he hates the others, who can stay so calm in the middle of so much ruin. He hates himself for his weakness._

_He lifts one boot to step over a tangle of abandoned shields when an arm flings out, snatching at the hem of his blood-stained robes with grime-covered fingers. Whimpering in fright and revulsion, he stumbles backwards, robes tearing out of the wounded man's hand as he falls to his backside in the grass. The ground is warm and wet beneath him, and he shudders with nausea._

_There's a gargling, croaking noise coming from the body, arm still stretched towards him. With horror, he recognizes it as a wet and wheezing laugh._

_"Boy," the man spits. His hair is long and dark and tangles across his face, but the greasy strands are not thick enough to hide the wild dread in the man's eyes. "You're a healer. Fix me."_

_The healer fumbles to his feet, babbling as he hesitantly steps towards the man. "I—I'm in training, I should get one of the—the others to t-t-take a lo—"_

_But the man's hand has found the bottom of the mage's robe again, and now drags him closer._

_"Fix it," he growls again, spittle flying from his mouth to join the strands of saliva already coating his chin._

_The healer's eyes travel down the length of the man's body, terrified. Where the soldier's legs should be, there is no more than ragged bloody stumps, ending just above the knee. He can't look away. Flies already are beginning to coat the wound, swarming over the still-living flesh as the body slowly bleeds out. The man spasms with pain, and dozens of the buzzing insects swarm into the air. Suddenly they are around his face, crawling across the skin at the back of his neck, tickling the edge of his ear._

_Panic takes hold, and he runs. He lurches his way to the edge of the field before bending over to vomit onto the grass, sinking to his knees when his shaking legs give out. Long after his stomach has emptied, the painful retching finally ends. The coppery tang of blood won't leave his tongue. He crawls, then shamefully walks away from this site of bloodshed. He knows the others will notice his departure._

_He knows when he returns to the camp, he will not see that soldier's face among those saved._

Hawke dreams.

o - o - o

The Inquisitor makes it to the camp in less than three days. Her party stumbles in during late morning, tired and dirty. Cassandra, Solas, and Dorian pause to unload their mounts, but Lavellan walks straight to where Harding waits.

"Where is she?" the Inquisitor asks, her expression both weary and worried.

"Still sleeping, while we try to work out what all is wrong. A lot of the… physical healing is going slowly. Her body was in a rough way when we found it. The healers don't want to move too fast and over-stress any vital organs."

"She was awake when you found her, though?"

"If you can call it that. She was delirious and unresponsive. I don't think she knew who we were. I… I'm sorry. But we don't know yet if she's… all there."

Lavellan nods slowly. "Solas? Dorian?" She turns to her companions. "See if there's any way you can help?"

They nod, ducking into the tent. Cassandra walks to stand beside the inquisitor.

"Do you have any idea what might have happened?" The Seeker asks the dwarf. "How did she get here? Was there anyone found with her?"

Harding shakes her head. "Nothing. Not even footprints, or a trail to where she came from. We searched the area four times."

Lavellan's eyes close. "Could she really have been in the Fade this whole time? How could she have survived that?"

Cassandra places a hand onto her shoulder. "It is not your fault, Inquisitor. Do not dwell on what we do not yet know. Come now, let us see her."

Inside the tent, there is silence. Dorian and Solas already kneel next to the padded blankets Hawke has been laid atop, eyes unfocused as they examine the patient with magical sense rather than touch. Even stoic Cassandra looks stricken at the sight of the gaunt, limp form.

Solas' hand glows briefly, sparking green magic as he passes his palm across Hawke's brow. "How long has she been asleep?"

"We dosed her with a sleeping draught shortly after we brought her in, and another yesterday morning while we finished healing the worst of her injuries." The healer frowns. "In normal circumstances, I'd prefer for her to be awake by now, actually. But undoubtedly the Champion has a lot of recovering to do. We had to take things very slowly. A lot of her injuries had… internal components."

Dorian shudders. "When will it be safe for her to wake?"

"Whatever is left of the medicine will have worn off by tonight. You should be able to question her then, if… well."

_If there's anything left of her mind to answer_. No one dares to voice the thought.

Lavellan frowns, biting her bottom lip. "I had hoped to be able to send word back sooner. I promised Varric a letter as soon as we got here."

"Oh, believe me, he's been kept up to date," Harding comments as she steps into the doorway. "I believe I have five new messages from him since I went to bed last night. Anyway, since you're here, and if you have to wait around for a while anyway, could I possible steal some of your time? A few issues have been cropping up. Venatori, we suspect."

Lavellan closes her eyes, and when she opens them she is once more the Inquisitor. "Of course. Let us speak elsewhere. I don't want to disturb her."

As the group files out of the crowded tent, Solas catches their leader by the arm.

"A moment," he requests, as the others depart.

"Yes?" she asks when they are the last in the tent.

"If you like, I could try to find the Champion. In the Fade, I mean. Even if she cannot wake or does not realize she is dreaming, perhaps I can at least determine if she is… fully capable, in terms of her mental abilities." _To make sure she has any left._

Lavellan nods. "It will be a relief, just to know," she tells him. She gives his arm a gentle squeeze in thanks, and departs.

Solas glances about, shrugging off his backpack before finally settling himself onto one of the empty bedrolls beside where Hawke lies. For long minutes, he simply rests with his eyes clothes, slowly breathing and focusing on relaxing every muscle, from his bare feet up to his scalp. For most, sleep is a daily occurrence, but for him it is a well-practiced routine. In just a quarter of an hour, he feels his consciousness slip across the veil.

It is only another ten minutes before his eyes snap open and he shudders violently awake, gasping for air. Abandoning his belongings, he stumbles outside, nearly colliding with the startled healer.

"Wake her immediately." He instructs the mage, voice grave.

"We can't, she was only given her last tonic this morning. She won't be awake until late tonight, at the least."

"Solas? What's wrong?" Lavellan hurries over, as he wipes beards of sweat from his skin. "Did you find—"

"She is alive. In spirit, as well as body. But she is trapped where I cannot follow." He hesitates. "I do not know what exactly it is that plagues her. I can say it is much like the fears we battled on our way to the Nightmare. Except…"

"Except _what_, Solas?"

"Except there are thousands."

The Inquisitor's lips are pressed together in a tight line. "But she's not there physically anymore. They can't hurt her for real, right?"

His somber expression does not shift. "There are many ways to be hurt, Lethallan. I only hope she can forgive us for what we left her to. Back then, but also until she wakes now."

Without another word, he turns, and walks out of the camp and away from the Inquisitor's questioning stare.


End file.
